Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Syndicate
The air in the nursery turned suffocating.
Matteo walked to the heavy oak door, pulled it open, and motioned for his lead security officer, a towering man named Marco with scars running down his neck.
“Clear the floor,” Matteo ordered flatly. “No one enters the east wing. If anyone asks about the new maid, she has been assigned directly to my personal quarters. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Don Varric,” Marco replied without hesitation, stepping back and locking down the corridor.
Matteo closed the door, turning back to Liana. “Sit down.”
Liana lowered herself onto the velvet armchair in the corner of the room, cradling Nico tightly against her chest. The baby was now deeply asleep, breathing in steady, peaceful rhythm.
“Three weeks ago, you buried your baby,” Matteo said, leaning against the edge of the crib, his arms crossed over his chest. His voice lacked the harshness from before, replaced by a cold, calculating focus. “How did your child die, Liana?”
Liana’s throat locked. The memory came crashing back: the small hospital room, the rhythmic, horrifying flatline of the heart monitor, the feeling of holding her little girl, Clara, as her warmth slowly faded away.
“She was born with a severe cardiac defect,” Liana whispered, her voice cracking with suppressed agony. “The doctors said her heart was too weak. She lived for six weeks. I sold everything I had to pay for her medical treatments, but... it wasn't enough.”
“And three weeks ago, my son started screaming continuously,” Matteo said, completing the timeline. “The exact same night your daughter passed away.”
Liana looked up, bewildered. “What are you saying? Are you implying some kind of dark superstition?”
“I don't believe in ghosts, Liana,” Matteo said coldly. “I believe in blood. And I believe in science. Nine months ago, my wife, Isabella, gave birth to Nico in a private medical facility in Switzerland. Three days after he was born, Isabella died of sudden complications—or so I was told by her family, the Moretti syndicate.”
Liana’s heart slammed against her ribs. The Morettis were the fiercest rivals of the Varric family, a conflict that had spilled blood across three states for over forty years.
“Why would your wife’s family lie to you?” Liana asked.
“Because my marriage to Isabella wasn't born out of love,” Matteo revealed, his eyes darkening like storm clouds. “It was a forced peace treaty between two warring families. Before Isabella died, she whispered something to me in the delivery room. She told me, ‘They will never let a Varric hold the true heir.’ I thought she was delirious from the fever. Now... I’m not so sure.”
Matteo stepped closer to Liana, towering over her. He reached out and gently touched the tarnished silver locket still held in his palm.
“This locket didn't belong to your mother, Liana,” Matteo said softly. “It belonged to my father’s sister—the lost daughter of the Varric family who disappeared twenty-five years ago during the height of the syndicate war. Her name was Elena Varric.”
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Liana felt as though the floor beneath her feet had suddenly dissolved into empty air. “No... no, that’s impossible. My surname is Graves. My father was a carpenter—”
“Your father was a fake identity created by my uncle to hide my aunt from the Morettis!” Matteo declared firmly. “Which means, Liana... you aren't just a maid who walked in off the street. You are my cousin. You are a Varric.”
